


carpe diem

by BrosleCub12



Series: Alternative Universe: Meet-Cutes [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Dates, Harry Potter References, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, London, M/M, Meet-Cute, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Sneaky Cameos - Freeform, Tourism, Vacation, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17887796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: The overdose all those years ago – coming close, so close, to the edge – taught Jack a lot about being alive and about being himself, without fear, without shame – but it also taught him to grab onto his life while he has it and to not let go until he absolutely must.





	carpe diem

**Author's Note:**

> The first story of this series was inspired by a difficult day out in London, last summer. Since then, I've had some really great days in London and I thought: time for a holiday!
> 
> As per, I don't own Check Please.

 

* * *

If he’s honest with himself, London isn’t Jack’s favourite place in the world. It’s…an interesting city, certainly, not one he’s unfamiliar with, but he supposes, having settled into the warm life of Providence, no other city will never feel quite so solid beneath his feet.

Still, London has its attractions and Jack relishes the opportunity to be completely unseen; on the other side of the Atlantic, pretty much nobody here knows who he is, or rather who he was. Here, he’s just a harmless French-Canadian tourist – sure, he’s had the misfortune already to wander down some…not particularly salacious areas; the ‘dodgy parts’ to use the local lingo, but he’s quickly made a turnabout, protective of his camera. He’s pretty sure he’d be able to handle himself but he’s on vacation; no point tempting fate.

A quick trip on the Underground later and he ends up beside the Thames in a very well-populated area, the Southbank, not too far away from the National Theatre. He’s sending a text to his parents, assuring them he’s still alive and he’s taking snaps of the river, shimmering a chilly evening tide; the towers, the corporate buildings, the famous Gherkin, all lit up by London lights. This, he considers, is the best of London and despite the noise, the air pollution and the people, the view lends a kind of peace. It almost feels as though Providence isn’t too far away, with the laughing couples and crowds, the busy restaurants and shops that line the street beside the river-bank.

Unfortunately, as with anything, the relative peace is broken by the sound of shouting, frantic and furious, and Jack looks up to see a very panicked-looking, very speedy man racing down the side of the Thames. He’s shoving people out the way – Jack hears yelps, screams, swearing – and as he approaches Jack, violently shoves between a group of girls and a small, solitary figure walking in the opposite direction, huddled up in his coat, reading a map.

The forceful push, almost a throw, completely unbalances him, but Jack’s old hockey reflexes are excellent; he manages to catch the boy in his arms before he falls, his map spilling out of his hands. Jack blinks in annoyance over his head at the careless figure running away, apparently being pursued by two other people who dash past them a second later; Jack gets a glimpse of a long, dark figure with a flapping coat, tailed by someone shorter and stockier who at least has the good grace to pant ‘Sorry!’ at them in passing. Then they’re gone, disappearing into the crowd.  

‘Um,’ Jack blinks, shakes himself and looks down at the person in his arms. ‘Hello. Are you alright?’

The boy glances up; under the London lights, huge, damp, brown eyes blink up, deer-like, at Jack. His face is smooth; his skin, even in the cold shade of the evening, is coloured a warm tan. Jack blinks back and then, realising he’s still holding on to him and that this is really rather awkward, lets go.

‘Are you okay?’ he presses gently, uncertain, wondering if he’s even being understood.

‘Yeah,’ the boy nods, sounding shaken. ‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.’ His voice carries a distinct Southern twang: a fellow civilian from across the Atlantic. He looks around, apparently hunting for his map; Jack bends down and picks it up for him, now dirty and muddle from the damp pavement and London drizzle; the boy takes it with a murmur of thanks and a trembling hand, sighs hugely at the mess it’s become. He looks, at a glance, wilted.

‘Are you hurt?’ Jack asks, his eyes already running over the boy for any sign of injury; something crumbles suddenly, in the boy’s face and he shakes his head.

‘No – sorry. Just – I seem to have lost the way to my hotel.’ He laughs, humourlessly; his voice cracks. ‘And now it’s gettin’ dark, and my phone ran out of charge an hour ago and I’ve already been approached by three tramps and people sellin’ stuff because I’ve got “lost London tourist” comin’ off me in waves…’

With every word, his voice climbs from quiet panic to really rather resigned hysteric and Jack, more understanding than he’d like to let on, but not wishing to scare the boy anymore than he’s already been pushed to, holds a hand out between them and brings it down gently in midair.

‘Breathe, bud. Just breathe. It’s going to be alright; you’re safe, okay? You’re safe, I promise. Everything’s alright.’ He watches the boy nod, struggle to gain control; digs into his pocket for the packet of tissues he picked up earlier. Glad he did, he muses dryly, as the boy plucks one out of the packet, blows his nose, takes a deep, shuddering breath, air trembling out in a fog.

‘Look on the bright side,’ Jack shrugs, ‘there are worst parts of London to get lost in.’ He indicates their surroundings and the boy laughs shakily gives a one-shouldered shrug, apparently agreeing with him, squinting at the map. ‘Look, where _is_ your hotel?’

‘Uh…’ the boy screws his face up. ‘Covent Garden, or near there, I think? But I can’t figure out where it is; I got a cab this afternoon and it got caught in traffic and was _really_ expensive – ‘

‘You lost your bearings,’ Jack nods, understanding; the boy looks (and sounds) like he’s about to cry, but is making a truly valiant attempt to resist. ‘Have you got any water?’ When the boy shakes his head, he gently scolds, ‘Right, that’s not going to have helped. Why don’t we go in there,’ he indicates a well-lit coffee-shop just down the bank, ‘and look at your map, eh? Try and figure out where it is you need to go?’

‘Oh,’ the boy blinks, eyes widening at the offer. ‘Well – thankyou, um…I went into a bank to try and ask directions, but the staff were all just standing around the counter talking about their holidays and didn’t even look at me. I was scared to try after that.’

He sounds rather peeved about that and Jack shrugs, semi-apologetically (although he will admit that while he knows the job of a banker is to first and foremost bank, they could at least try and act helpful and professional to everyone who comes through the door, not least to tearful, small American tourists who clearly need a hand).

They walk down to the café; Jack opens a door and waves the boy through and together they head towards an empty table. Getting the boy sat down and calm is the first priority – his legs are close to shaking and not just because of the cold weather – but Jack… isn’t _quite_ prepared for the way he yanks his hat and scarf off, revealing soft, blonde hair almost the colour of light caramel, that he absent-mindedly straightens back into place. In the clearer light of the café, he looks older than Jack first presumed; obviously he’s old enough to be wandering around London but now Jack has to stop and think before labelling him as a teenager. This close, he can actually mark him as a college student; even a recent graduate, probably in his (very) early twenties.

‘I’ll, eh, get you some water,’ he covers quickly and waving aside the boy’s protests, goes up to the counter to get a couple of bottles; he’s feeling rather parched himself, actually, now he thinks about it and he hands a five-pound note over to the girl behind the counter. ‘Thankyou. And, eh – do you have anything with peanut butter?’ Protein, he thinks, would be very good for this situation.

The girl blinks at him slowly. ‘We have coffee and walnut cake,’ she says finally, apologetically and Jack smirks and leaves it at that; he’ll pick up a jar of the stuff on the way back to his own hotel. With that in mind he picks up a Galaxy bar from the confectionary rack, hands over an extra coin for that, brings it back with the water.

‘Here,’ he offers, sliding the bar and one of the bottles across to the boy. ‘You look as if you could use a pick-me-up.’

‘Oh.’ The poor, lost tourist picks up the bar. ‘Gosh. You’re buying me drinks and I don’t even know your name. Thankyou, um…’

‘Jack,’ he quickly supplies for him; wonders about providing a surname but the boy is already – very politely – plucking off a glove and holding out a hand to shake.

‘Eric,’ he smiles. ‘But you can call me Bitty. Old college nickname,’ he shrugs with a smile.

‘Good to meet you, eh, Bitty,’ Jack accepts both that and the handshake, looks him up and down. ‘Get the chocolate bar down you, you look like you need it. Rough afternoon, eh?’ he asks, sympathetic, as Bitty rips the chocolate open.

Bitty shrugs; nods. ‘Exciting at first, then a tiny bit scary.’ He laughs, the sound like falling bricks, snaps off a square of Galaxy and offers it to Jack; surprised by the thoughtfulness, Jack accepts before he can really think about it. ‘It’s a big city. Oh,’ he cuts himself off as he takes a bite of the chocolate, eyes closing in something like ecstasy, ‘this is absolutely _yummy,_ thankyou.’

He gives a full-cheeked grin to Jack, looking a bit like an adorable hamster with its cheeks full; checks the packet, muttering something about buying more to stuff into his suitcase. Jack quickly eats the square he was given and he has to concede: it is good, with a sweet and sultry flavour. He makes a mental note to remember that he’s supposed to be on holiday and to maybe not feel so bad about the occasional candy-splurge while he’s here. His father certainly doesn’t and has told him the same (often while shoving a few generous squares of the stuff into his mouth, grinning unrepentantly).

With Bitty somewhat calmer with some water and sugar inside him, they lay out the map on the table between them. Bitty, after digging through his rather disorganised-looking bag, finally comes up with his room-key still in its hotel-card, which thankfully has the address on it; good job, considering the kid seems so overwhelmed and scatter-brained. Jack’s quick eyes – useful for seeking out the puck on the ice, for capturing that perfect shot – and a look on his own phone means he’s speedily able to find the hotel on the map, which he circles for Bitty.

‘Here we are, bud. You only have to go across the Waterloo Bridge, turn left here…’ He goes through the directions with him via the map; Bitty nods along frantically, looking subsequently less panicked and when Jack is done, he holds a hand to his chest and breathes out, lowers his head towards the table.

‘Oh, thank God. Thankyou so much, Jack.’ He closes his eyes for a moment, inhales-exhales as he laughs hysterically, reaches out, puts a grateful hand to his wrist. ‘I don’t mind tellin’ you, I was gettin’ kind of scared.’

‘It’s okay.’ Jack glances at the hand on his wrist; tries not to think too hard about how he feels about that. He certainly doesn’t mind, don’t get him wrong; it’s just it’s… been a while, really, since he was touched by anyone who wasn’t his parents or a friend. In fact, his love-life has been, well… _non-existent,_ actually, in terms of men and women, although his parents – and some of his buddies on the Falconers, actually, when he goes to hang out with them for an afternoon – have been asking if there’s anyone he’s got his eye on at the moment.

Jack’s not sure, really. It’s simpler this way. Easier. He only has himself to worry about; his own needs to look out for and anyway, isn’t that what he’s supposed to be doing? Looking after himself, taking care of his own needs? It may mean that he comes home to an empty apartment, but isn’t that worth the pay-off, knowing that he can be in his own company now without his brain trying to eat itself alive?  

‘Well…’ Bitty gets to his feet, plucking up the map, focusing hard on the circled area. ‘I’d better get back there before I cause anymore trouble to my fellow Americans!’

‘Canadian,’ Jack finds himself correcting, as he stands with him. ‘French.’ Then he winces as Bitty nods, looking suitably chastised; it’s an easy mistake to make, after all. Jack, unfortunately, tends to have this particular effect on people. ‘Eh – but my Maman’s American, though; it’s just my dad and I, so,’ he shrugs, chuffs awkwardly.

Bitty nods, smiles, apparently choosing to shrug it off. ‘Okay. So I just go over the bridge – that’s good and then go… here?’

‘Here,’ Jack points helpfully.

‘Right!’ Bitty agrees quickly. ‘And then I go…’ He pauses; bites his lip, meets Jack’s eyes guiltily. ‘Okay, I really wish I’d written all that down.’

Jack thinks of his warm hotel bed and then considers himself tossing and turning in that same bed if he leaves Bitty to wander around London unsupervised.

‘Do you want me to walk you over the bridge?’ he asks, neutrally. ‘It’ll be easier to direct you once you’re on the other side.’

Bitty pauses; hesitates. Stares at the map again; moves it between his fingers, looking caught, awkward, like a kid who’s been given a hundred-dollar bill at random and is torn between wanting to spend it on all the toys and sweets of their dreams and wanting to know why. (Jack actually saw this happen when he attended the Falconers’ family-skate as Tater’s guest; the big Russian bear had come armed with his wallet and an apparent misconception that none of the players’ kids had a big enough allowance).

‘Well,’ Bitty grimaces, looking caught in his own anxiety, ‘If you really don’t mind and you’re…not busy?’ He raises an eyebrow doubtfully, as though convinced that Jack has far better things to do than walk random lost Southerners across a bridge in London.

Jack shakes his head. ‘Nah, not really. I was just, you know, meandering when you were shoved into me. Taking photos of the river.’ He gestures to his camera for want of a better explanation and something in that seems to reassure Bitty, as if Jack’s fact-share, this indication of himself, makes him more real as a person: more trustworthy and less suspect.

‘Honestly, it’s lucky you were there,’ he gives Jack a big smile. ‘Alright then, lead the way.’ He makes to walk towards the door; realises he’s left his hat behind and darts back for it. Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, biting back a smile as he watches him put it on and together, they leave the café and start walking quickly towards the bridge.

 _‘Brrrrrr!’_ Bitty rubs his hands together, deliberately exaggerated. ‘It’s so cold it’s _painful!’_

‘It’s a cold time of year to come to the UK, eh?’ Jack finds himself saying, secretly glad at Bitty’s apparent readiness to make conversation. Bitty looks at him, incredulous.

‘Jack, I grew up in Georgia! This physically _hurts!’_

Jack chuffs a little, hands in his pockets, puffing out air into the evening. ‘Yeah, I bet it does. Must be quite a shakeup for you, eh?’ Bitty nods emphatically. ‘So, er, what brings you here?’

He asks it carefully, not wanting to pry too much, not wanting Bitty to think he has any reason for the question other than for what it is: polite small talk, which Jack frankly is still learning to master. Bitty shrugs, however, and it seems a little forced; a wrong colour on such an expressive face.

‘Oh, you know. Life, the Universe, everything…’ He laughs, a slightly broken sound; Jack, sensing something underneath, nods, backs off a little.

‘And what about you, Monsieur?’ Bitty adds then, making a noticeably-determined effort to both sound cheerful and change the subject.

‘Eh – same thing, really,’ Jack offers, careful, non-committal. ‘Needed a holiday. Peace of mind, you know.’ He’s aware that’s not very forthcoming either but he’s certainly not about to go into the reasons why his anxiety has been, to borrow a phrase from Shitty, ‘one ugly sonofabitch lately.’ Jack is all for openness when it comes to discussion of mental health – one of a couple of reasons he ultimately decided against joining the NHL – but once or twice in his time he’s found himself in uncomfortable situations when strangers, friends of friends he’s meeting for the first time, who have thrown all their issues at him just _because_ and, well, he’s honestly not been sure how to take it.

He gets the feeling Bitty is holding something back just as much as he is, but why should it matter to Jack, to either of them? He’s just being a good Samaritan, isn’t he? Helping out a fellow traveller?

And perhaps Bitty senses this just as much as Jack does because he stops suddenly and stares out at the waterline, the city lit up around them and whistles, ‘Wow. Isn’t it a sight?’

‘Not something you’d see on the tubes, eh?’ Jack asks, smoothly, gratefully taking up the subject change – although he _is_ curious as to why this kid was wandering around on the surface when he could easily take the Underground below and Bitty immediately shudders.

‘Brr, no fear. All those people!’ he shakes his head. ‘I mean, I know it’s the same when you go to New York – or any city, really – but it was so busy and hot and someone fainted and people were yelling at me when I tried to get out of the way and I don’t – ’

He pauses, swallows, looks down; squints at his shoes.

‘You okay?’ Jack presses. Bitty grimaces, looking the other way.

‘I don’t like being shoved or – or pushed into a corner,’ he says it quietly, embarrassed. ‘I know – I know it would have been easier but I just – I couldn’t face it. I did one stop and I had to get off – I couldn’t,’ he shakes his head, looking at Jack, exposed. ‘I couldn’t do it.’

Jack dips his head, holds his eyes, non-judgemental. It’s odd, but what Bitty’s telling him reminds him of things he saw on the ice in Junior Hockey League; not often, but sometimes, a player, here and there, being reminded that they were in fact allowed to check back when other players checked them, that they had as much right to do so as anyone else on the ice. Players who point-blank refuse to start a fight with the other team. Marty once swore up and down that he witnessed two players trying to use Shakespeare quotations to outdo each other in lieu of using their fists, dropping down their gloves, spreading their arms in challenge, but neither willing to make the first, physical move.

‘It’s not for everyone,’ he offers, doing his best to sound consoling. ‘I doubt you’re the first.’

‘I got called a bloody Yank!’ Bitty exclaims scornfully and he goes on to tell Jack about one woman – ‘an older lady, without the grandmotherliness’ – who lectured him for bumping into her _after_ he apologised profusely and then made the aforementioned insult as he struggled to get off the train.

Jack nods along, only vaguely noticing as they mount the bridge and start their walk over it, the Thames whispering beneath their feet, feels an odd burst of empathy. He’s been there; been chastised for being a fish out of water when he was just doing his best to fit in, to get through.

‘People are just impatient,’ he tries to reassure Bitty; again, he knows, he’s been one of them. ‘When they’re trying to get from A to B, they’re just focused on where they’re going; not anything else. It’s not your fault.’

He thinks of Kent, whom he honestly can’t blame, in the mind of an adult and not the mixed-up kid he was, for taking Jack’s place in the draft in the end; the outdated idea of loyalty on that score, as if they were in some sort of sitcom – as if the NHL was some big, bad monster trying to tear apart the remains of what they’d had and which they had managed to destroy pretty spectacularly themselves, anyway – was, at least for them, completely laughable. It was everything else that was difficult.

And yet Jack still misses him, sometimes. Readily admits to himself that they weren’t well-suited – either as lovers, or even occasionally as friends – that their thick-as-thieves act couldn’t last forever. That, like him, Kent had a breaking point. That Captains – friends – drift apart. That even if Kent is in the NHL now, and Jack is just an average Joe, a teacher and photographer who plays hockey on the side and hangs out with the Falconers for coffee but watches them safely from a seat in the stadium, he still misses what he and Kent had, still has his number, barely used, in his phone. Texted him a civil _Good luck with your game_ a few weeks back and received just as civil a response back – _Thankyou, hope you’re ok_. It’s a far cry from hours of laughter in the summer, of walks along the lake and quite conversations, parties where Jack felt most comfortable seeking out his company. The photograph of him sitting on Kent’s lap once upon a time – ten years ago, feels like a hundred – still circulates the internet, just like the rumours and the occasional fanfiction.

‘Guess so. Oh, look at that!’ Bitty stops again, dragging Jack out of his thoughts and points towards the London Eye, lit up like a gentle firework. ‘Oh, I’d love to go on that!’ He says it with the enthusiasm of a kid in a theme-park and looks hopefully at Jack. ‘Can I – sorry, can I get a quick snap?’

Jack shrugs. ‘Sure. Actually…’ he fingers his camera thoughtfully. ‘I might join you.’

They stand side-by-side on the bridge, Bitty using a simple traveller’s camera, Jack with his DLSR as they take photographs. Bitty’s eyes travel over the buildings, the outline of London silhouetted by its lights drawing his attention and takes a few more photos of things he likes the look of. After a moment, he turns and catches Jack’s eye; startles, looking embarrassed.

‘Sorry, I know I’m holdin’ us up – ‘

‘No, you’re fine,’ Jack waves a hand around. ‘Eh, I really don’t have anywhere to be, so.’ He shrugs; it’s the truth. There’s a freedom in coming away to places like this, with no-one to please but yourself. Unfortunately, there’s also no-one to really have your back, in a city containing millions of people, none of whom know who you are.

Still, Jack will have this kid’s, for as long as they’re walking together.

Bitty is admittedly fantastic at chasing away any potential for an awkward silence, chatting nineteen-to-the dozen about places like Baker Street – ‘It’s where a famous detective once lived – or possibly _lives,_ I’m not quite sure’ – The National Portrait Gallery, which allows Jack an inning to chat about the portraits there that he took snaps of, although he’s loathe to admit that he was there for five hours yesterday – and Trafalgar Square – ‘I just really love the lions!’

Their conversation carries them over the bridge with ease and once there, Bitty is getting out his map again, squinting at the street-signs.

‘That way?’ he looks at the map and then points forward towards a random street, hopefully. They exchange a long look and then Jack chuffs, indicates with his head, utterly resigned.

‘This way. Come on.’ He starts walking and Bitty blinks.

‘Jack, I can’t ask you to – ‘

‘You’re not asking me, I’m offering,’ Jack shrugs back. ‘And I mean it, Bittle; I really, really don’t have anywhere else to be, honest.’ He smiles, resigned; his hotel room is nice, but it’s pretty large, all the same and very big for one person. ‘Anyway, it’s not too far now.’

Bitty, looking embarrassed and indebted all at once, gives in, falls back into step. ‘Thankyou,’ he mumbles and they carry on, Jack not thinking too hard about the caught look in Bitty’s face, the bitten lip, the fact that he’s clearly grateful but has no idea how to properly express it, at least right now.

Before too long they’re wandering through the West End and its nest of theatres; Jack, remembering Bitty’s less-than-stellar feelings about crowds, takes charge of moving him out of the way of determined flower-sellers, evangelists and street-entertainers in truly-poor costumes. Once or twice they get separated, just for a second, by pillars or people walking through the middle of them and Jack expertly winds his way back around before Bitty starts to panic, his eyes already widening at the prospect of losing his guide. Bitty’s head turns this way and that as they wander; he really is out of his depth and yet he wants to drink it all in, Jack can tell. He wants to not feel so lost.

‘You get used to it,’ he tells him, trying to sound comforting, then wonders why he’s taken it upon himself to offer probably-unwanted life-lessons. Bitty glances at him, curious.

‘Do you come here often, then, Jack?’ Almost in silent agreement, they move towards the edge of the bustling crowd, which allows for less noise and the chance to hear each other properly.

He shrugs. ‘When I can. My, eh, parents sometimes brought me here a time or two for work when I was a kid and for a holiday, but now I…figured I’d come here on my own. Get out of Providence and go to another city for a complete lack of fresh air.’

Bitty giggles, shyly, the sound gratifying, looking at his feet. ‘Fresh air,’ he echoes, sticking his hands in his pockets. ‘I’d sure like some of that.’

He smirks, a sad sort of thing, their walk slowing to a kind of stroll. People pass and Jack watches the way that Bitty’s eyes linger on a young male couple walking past, a blonde man with his arm around his dark-haired boyfriend’s shoulders, both laughing quietly and utterly content. Bitty turns and watches them head down the street, lost in themselves and each other. He’s pretty sure he can see something soft, wistful, in his face; then Bitty glances at him, looking sheepish, rubs the back of his neck.

‘I don’t mean to stare, I just…’ he sighs, rubs his forehead. ‘That guy there, he just…reminded me of my ex, a little. My boyfriend.’ He holds his chin up a little higher with the word, almost defensive, scanning his face for any reaction but Jack just nods, politely. ‘My ex-boyfriend, I suppose I should say. He…should’ve been here with me.’

‘Okay,’ Jack says carefully, feeling the weight of the conversation. Something in his manner seems to reassure Bitty, who carries on as they continue down the street.

‘We’d, eh, planned this trip for Valentines,’ he explains, quickly, almost as if he wants to get it all out of his system at once. ‘As, y’know, a present to ourselves for graduatin’ last summer. We were going to work and save up for it – that was the plan. All well and good, but then he met someone else a few months ago.’ He shrugs, a deliberate devil-may-care thing. ‘He was kind enough to let me have _this_ trip while _he_ skipped off to Paris with his new beau.’

Jack winces. ‘Sorry, bud,’ he murmurs, offering up an empathetic fist-bump which Bitty accepts with a slight smile. ‘If it’s any consolation, it gets easier. I promise you, it gets easier.’ It does, too – as a teenager, Jack worried incessantly about ‘losing’ Kent somehow, in the NHL – the draft, the questions, different teams, different lives. But now it _has_ happened and honestly… Jack wishes he could tell his nineteen-year-old self that the world, in fact, _does_ keep on turning.

‘How are you doing after all that?’ he asks; Bitty spreads his hands wide.

‘Oh, you know... It’s easier, now. I mean, I wasn’t gonna waste the trip!’ He says it with very obvious, up-and-at-‘em determination and it makes Jack chuff. ‘We got a refund on his plane ticket, but it’s… why I got lost, I guess – I was so busy gettin’ over the breakup and tryin’ to adjust I didn’t really… plan anything out, in the end. I just… I wanted to get away from it all.’

Jack inclines his head as they reach a crossing. ‘Understandable.’ _Definitely_ understandable. He quickly glances at his phone, looks up at the street-signs. ‘Yeah, this way.’  

‘Poor boy,’ Bitty chuckles, misinterpreting Jack’s concentration as changing the subject. ‘You offer to walk me to my hotel, and I end up telling you all my woes. Bring on the world’s littlest violin.’ He mimics playing one and Jack shakes his head, uncomprehending.

‘Definitely not, bud,’ he assures. ‘I, eh, needed to get away as well.’

Bitty nods, something in his face empathetic, without pushing. ‘Change of scene?’

‘Yeah,’ he nods in agreement, keeping his eyes fixed on Bitty’s. It’s found its way into the news-columns in one form or another: _Expose: Bad Bob’s Boy’s early years._ More specifically, a mixture of things: a disappointingly poor therapist and the scramble to find a new one, a necessary but Really Not Brilliant meeting with Kent and his publicist following the last Really Quite Bad meeting they’d had, which proved once and for all that the occasional text is all they can give each other anymore.

Jack slows his pace thoughtfully; someone bumps into him from behind with an ‘Oof, watch it, mate,’ and he mumbles an apology as they walk around him, even as he weighs things up in his mind.

‘Everything okay, Jack?’ Bitty is watching him with concern, slowing down with him.

‘Yeah, uh…’ Jack feels awkward, caught on the edge of a precipice and before he truly realises what he’s doing, he asks the question that’s been nagging him regardless since they started walking, the result of a life of being both protected and then vilified and finally cast aside as a failure by the press. ‘Look, Bitty, um. You – you don’t happen to recognise me, do you?’

He asks it quietly and then promptly curses himself: Bitty looks alarmed; genuinely scared, even, as he takes a step back and shakes his head.

 _‘Sh-should_ I…?’

‘No,’ Jack’s shoulders sag, disappointed with himself; he’s only known Bitty for a short time, but he can tell honesty when he sees it and he truly does wish he’d just kept his mouth shut. Just let himself be _normal._ ‘No, you shouldn’t, bud, sorry. I just…’ He folds his arms, apologetic. ‘Being paranoid.’

‘Oh, I – I didn’t mean to pry,’ Bitty offers up quickly. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you.’

‘No,’ Jack holds a hand out, chuckling despite himself. ‘No, you haven’t done anything wrong, it’s not that, it’s just, eh…’ He shrugs, decides to come clean, to explain; they’ve left the crowds of Piccadilly behind now, having stepped into quieter lanes and he nods for them to keep walking. It’s easier if he can walk while he’s saying it.

‘Someone decided to sell some stories of my Dad, me – and, eh, someone else, to the press and, well, it all went to hell, a bit.’ He says it calmly, eyes forward – even if some part of him is still quietly _seething_ at the choice made by someone in Junior Hockey League to dish out the dirt to the papers, tinged with half-truths and downright lies in a bid to make some money.

Yeah, it’s been a rough few weeks.

Bitty, for his part, starts, skids slightly on the damp pavement, a hand covering his mouth. ‘Who – who is your Dad?’ he asks, very tentatively.

‘Bad Bob.’ When this does nothing to change the expression on Bitty’s face, Jack elaborates. ‘He was a hockey player in the 80s, in the NHL. Bob Zimmermann. I’m Jack Zimmermann, his son.’

Just for the sake of peace of mind, more for Bitty than for anything else, he gets his wallet out to show his driving-license to Bitty, feeling a kind of dull throb in his ears, at the fact that he’s just come out and said it; that he’s told the tale to a stranger. A kind-seeming stranger, but a _stranger,_ nevertheless.

There’s five seconds of incomprehension in Bitty’s face as he squints at Jack in the London light – and then he gives a squeal, throws a hand over his mouth.

‘Oh! That was you? I saw that online – I didn’t read it,’ he adds, hastily, as though the very thought is unthinkable, ‘I just remember seeing a headline and hearing some talk on Twitter – oh, Jack.’ He reaches out, his eyes wide and worried, places a hand to his arm, waving aside the information that Jack is the son of a famous hockey player. ‘Jack, I am so sorry. If it’s any consolation, I think the columns the stories were sold to were complete garbage, anyway and not a lot of people believed them; they’ve said some _really_ horrible things about my favourite actors.’

Jack chuckles, appreciative of the sentiment; Bitty bites his lip, ventures his next question as though he’s going into unchartered territory: ‘Are – are you okay?’

Honestly? It’s Jack’s interest at the question – so different from the thinly-veiled queries of _is it true? Did you really…?_ that he’s been dogged with at all sides from the past couple of weeks, to the point where he needed some space between himself and all of this, preferably over three-thousand miles worth – that makes him answer truthfully.

‘Yeah…’ the words fall from his mouth like a creaking door, easing back on its hinges. ‘I mean – it’s annoying and it did make me angry and it’s not… unexpected; just, had a bit of a knock-on effect for me personally and it brought some… _old_ stuff back up.’

 _Old stuff._ That meeting with Kent and his publicist for one thing, awkward and horrible, but necessary. Back on his bedroom floor, for another, warding off both irritation with himself and an anxiety attack, his laptop mocking him with the headlines.

‘I mean… it’s not the first time,’ he reiterates, for himself as much as Bitty. ‘I’m friends with a few of the guys in Providence and some of them have gone through this as well; friends of friends, family members who were estranged for reasons like this. I guess,’ he swallows, makes himself say it. ‘It was bad for us because, well, it turned out to be the son of someone who’d been a rookie under my Dad but got bumped to the AHL after he couldn’t measure up.’

Something sharp, _unimpressed,_ crosses Bitty’s face in the half-light of the London night; Jack finds it gratifying.

‘I knew who he was,’ he shrugs, ‘and we never spoke all that much in Junior Hockey, at least not off the ice, but he’s basically ended up sprawling out like his dad, and well…’

He feels embarrassed admitting it; as if he truly _is_ the spoiled prince he’s often been accused of being, by the press, by his fellow Hockey League players and even by Kent sometimes, sitting at his father’s feet on the golden throne and staring idly out at the darker areas of the kingdom without lifting a finger to help, when the truth is very, very different. That Jack, in fact, used to watch everyone else laughing and smiling and wondered what he had to rid himself of to smile like that. That the Kaydens – both father _and_ son – had lucked out and ended up on the outside looking in. It doesn’t matter that Jack wound up doing the same thing, following the overdose; he supposes the only real difference is that he had a choice, the offer of a second chance that he’d turned down.

‘Just wish I’d spoken to him more,’ he winds up admitting, hands in his pockets, ‘encouraged him, maybe. He might have done better if I’d done more than just told him where to go on the ice, if I’d got to know him a little. He had potential, I remember that much. I guess I,’ he swallows, ‘because of the thing with our Dads, I guess, I felt like he – he didn’t want to talk to me and so we were only ever just team-mates.’

That, and Jack had been trying hard to keep himself together; to keep his pills even and balanced; to stop the endless shouting in his head; to keep his and Kent’s stats up. That and the fact that his teammates had been loud and broad and interested in other things that weren’t hockey or history, had only ever made Jack their Captain – never their friend.

Bitty shakes his head. ‘It’s not your fault. I bet you _did_ encourage him, honey.’ The word, the _endearment_ , drops between them, sweet and sudden and Jack blinks; Bitty, perhaps sensing his surprise, pushes on hurriedly, as they stroll along together.

‘But you probably had a lot of players to deal with and people – well, they can be difficult. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to be so sordid; could’ve done what you did and just…left quietly,’ he gestures Jack and his camera with a faint smile, ‘rather than… _that._ It’s not his business – there’s people involved. You can’t just… _do_ that to someone.’

He sounds angry as he speaks, angrier than he has any right to be on Jack’s behalf and yet, it’s appreciated.

‘Thanks,’ he manages; his hand finds Bitty’s shoulder. It’s so unlike anything else; unlike the journalists, unlike the comments online, unlike the stares in the street. It’s outrage on his behalf – someone on his side. It’s real. ‘Thanks, Bits.’

Slowly, almost mechanically, in silent agreement, they start walking again, a snail’s pace, a shared silence, a shared burden. For his part, Jack wonders if he should have brought any of this up at all. If it will change the way Bitty’s been looking at him; regarding him less as a helpful stranger and more _oh dear he’s got issues_ which have caused some (most) people to keep their distance.

Bitty, however, seems to be walking slightly _closer_ to him, and his shoulder appears to be brushing against Jack’s with increasing frequency. When Jack looks his way, he smiles, a kind curve, but his eyes look sad. Gentle, but sad.  

‘And I thought I had it tough,’ he says after a few minutes silence; raises a hand to pat Jack’s forearm. ‘I’m just sorry you’ve been through the wars yourself.’ He sounds like he means it, says it with care, with comradery even and Jack finds something in him easing; finds himself smiling – right before Bitty looks up and blinks at the street they’ve just turned into.

‘Oh! I recognise this. I’m just up here…’ He points ahead and Jack trails after him, thinking he might as well escort him all the way to the front door for safety’s sake. The hotel is a simple, narrow presence in the street, cheap enough and safe enough for the wandering American tourist and Jack knows for a fact that it’s in a good area. Bitty turns to Jack, his face pleased.

‘Oh, Jack. Thankyou so much.’ He flings his arms around him without warning; it’s unexpected and Jack pats his shoulder, carefully, very aware it’s been a long time since he was held like this by another man. ‘I would’ve ended up drowned in the Thames if it weren’t for you.’

‘Heh.’ Jack pulls back, gently; offers his hand to shake, which Bitty takes. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, eh? And you’re welcome.’

They stand smiling at each other, just for a few seconds and Jack becomes aware that this looks strange, two tourists staring at each other outside a hotel door. It’s like a scene in one of those films Tater often makes him watch, supposedly in a bid to ‘improve his English’ but which simply results in him sobbing his enormous heart out all over Jack’s shoulder.

‘Anyway, eh, you get inside and get warm, get your phone charged,’ he cautions, shaking himself out of that thought. ‘And, eh, enjoy London! Head up, alright?’ He flicks Bitty’s hat playfully, getting a smile for his efforts. Then, with a nod, he makes himself turn and walk away, fast, too fast, wondering if he should have brought that up, if he should have brought _any_ of that up – when Bitty, sounding slightly strangled, calls him back.

‘Jack!’

He promptly turns around. Too fast.

‘Yep?’ he calls, aiming for nonchalant and clearly failing. Bitty opens his mouth, pauses and then scuttles across.

‘I, um,’ he clears his throat, ‘I don’t know if – if you’re free, that is – I have a spare ticket for the Cursed Child tomorrow, it’s – it was my boyfriend’s, I couldn’t get a refund. I was planning to – to try and sell it on my Twitter account…but seeing as you came to my rescue and if you’re not doing anything…?’ He pauses, takes a breath, biting his lip, looking expectant; when Jack fails to respond, he pushes, gently: ‘Would you like it?’

‘I…’ Jack doesn’t know what to say; is he… being asked out? In London, of all places? Is Bitty just being grateful? Is he asking just to be polite, just because he thinks he owes a favour? Is he secretly hoping Jack will say no?

‘I…don’t actually know what that is,’ he manages finally, apologetically, deciding to start with the basics. ‘Is it an exhibition?’

Bitty looks startled, shakes his head. ‘No, honey, it’s – it’s Harry Potter. Harry Potter and the Cursed Child?’

‘Oh.’ Jack blinks. ‘A – a new book?’

Bitty giggles. ‘Well, yes, in a matter of speaking – it’s a play. I mean – it’s not great, I’ll give you that,’ he adds, quickly, ‘I’ve read the script and the storyline’s kind of bad and so is Harry at times, actually and I don’t think he’d say half that stuff anyway and I don’t know – but the effects are supposed to be great and Albus and Scorpius are, frankly, adorable. I love their scenes together,’ he adds with a sunny grin. ‘Anyway, the ticket’s there. If you’d like it.’

‘Um.’ Jack considers. Considers that there are several shots he wants to take tomorrow to email back to Providence, that there’s a visit he wanted to make to Cutty Sark and a steakhouse he was going to try for a nice, leisurely dinner.

Considers going to the theatre to watch a play from a franchise he’s _really_ not all that familiar with, with this near stranger, who he doesn’t know from Adam. This stranger who came to London on his own despite a shake-up in his personal life; who is resilient enough to push himself out of his comfort zone (with mixed results, if his stumbling on London streets, trying to find his feet, is anything to go by). Who cautiously offered up comfort without pressing for more; who didn’t ask him what _did you do?_ but simply apologised for the actions of someone else.

Who has an open, expressive face – which is currently staring into Jack’s with something that looks suspiciously like hope.

‘Okay, then,’ Jack finds himself saying and gets out his phone to take Bitty’s number.

*

This is a mistake. Jack tells himself this several times over during the next morning after a somewhat sleepless night; at breakfast, in the shower, after choosing several different t-shirts to wear and dismissing them all as too casual before going for his standard black with a jacket over the top. No need to try too hard, after all.

He considers, more than once, begging off ill out of sheer nerves, with the excuse to himself that he doesn’t want to do anything to flare his anxiety back up. He came to London for a break and photography, after all, not to hang around with a college graduate at the theatre.

And yet the prospect of disappointing Bitty and the memory of the way his smile softly spread, moonlike, over his face – the softness of his hand on Jack’s arm – quickly nips that in the bud.

That, and when he casually mentions to Shitty via a pre-arranged Skype call that he’s seeing the Cursed Child in the West End, Shitty interrogates him, tells him he hates the play for its ‘outdated heteronormative values,’ and ‘fucking terrible storytelling, brah’ – and also that there is a ‘long, long, really _fucking_ long list of people who would absolutely _kill_ to see it and not even _you,_ Jack, with your twenty rocks, would pass up the opportunity, would you, you glorious Canadian moose?’

And, well. The overdose all those years ago – coming close, _so close,_ to the edge – taught Jack a lot about being alive and about being _himself,_ without fear, without shame – but it also taught him to grab onto his life while he has it and to not let go until he absolutely _must._

And not even _Jack_ is about to pass up the opportunity to watch an apparently much-coveted play, least of all with a stunning young man with warm brown eyes and a soft tongue.

‘It doesn’t _have_ to be a date, brah,’ Shitty informs him, shamelessly naked on the web-cam, in the middle of his yoga session; it’s only long years of experience with things like this that prevents Jack from shielding his eyes.

‘I mean, it would be fucking good if it were, though, right?’ Shitty chirps after a slight pause. ‘Is he cute?’

 _He’s really kind of beautiful,_ Jack wants to say, but keeps that thought – which has been keeping him up most of the night with glowing clarity and hammering heart – very much to himself, thanks.

At midday, he takes the tube – thinks of Bitty’s aversion to it during the empty, just-after-lunch lull, makes a mental note not to bring Bitty on here and then thinks _wait, what_ – and walks back down the route he took with Bitty the night before. He takes a few distracted snaps of London in the daytime, cursing his hands for their slight shake which blur the lens, the slight cavern-like feeling of his stomach and quietly considering that he’s suffered enough awkward and embarrassing situations in his time, so one more can’t hurt anyway.

When he reaches the theatre, he spots Bitty immediately, waiting for him right out in the front, glancing this way and that way expectantly. When he turns, and sees Jack across the road, his face lights up in the same way it did last night when Jack helped him find his hotel and he waves, his feet almost leaving the ground.

As if he’s pleased to see Jack. As if Jack spilling everything out last night did not, in fact, put him off. Jack decides it’s worth remembering that Bitty did actually ask him first and the knowledge of that, the _familiarity_ of it, has Jack crossing the road and straight into Bitty’s outstretched arms, ready for the hug this time.

‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ Bitty says breathlessly, cold afternoon air puffing out between them and he gives Jack his ticket, leads him towards the already bustling line of fans waiting to go in, already chatting nineteen-to-the-dozen, asking Jack all about his morning. Jack simply decides to go with it and finds himself watching a play with some truly stupendous stage-effects. Watching, he can’t help but feel a shimmer of regret that he’s obviously missed out on the whole _Harry Potter_ thing growing up, preferring books about World War 2 when he wasn’t practising on the ice.

Luckily, Bitty gives him a crash-course in all things Potter over the early dinner Jack buys them, officially as a thankyou for his ticket, but which feels like something else altogether. By dessert, Jack has learnt what a Niffler is, why Professor Snape was _not_ , in fact, a very good person even though Alan Rickman was, to quote Bitty, ‘a god among men,’ over half the adults in Harry Potter are ‘downright corruptive – seriously, honey, who gives these guys teaching degrees?’ and that for the longest time, Bitty had a crush on the character of Remus Lupin and was devastated when he got together with Tonks.

‘Not that I don’t want them to be happy,’ he adds hurriedly, as Jack listens over his coffee, a faint smile on his lips as his concern for fictional characters. ‘I just…it sounds silly now and it was probably me stereotyping but my Mama used to read them with me and as a kid I’d hoped that…that Tonks _might_ like girls, maybe.’ He shrugs and takes a long sip of his hot chocolate.

‘No such luck, eh?’ Jack shrugs; Bitty indicates his head, smiling ruefully.

‘It’s been a bit of a problem,’ he admits. ‘I…That was actually the reason for the breakup. He… he didn’t like that I’m not – that I haven’t – my parents don’t _know.’_ His throat tightens and he doesn’t have to say anything else; Jack understands, just like he understands that to say that aloud probably hurt like hell.   

Jack puts down his coffee – hesitates – and reaches out to put a careful hand on his wrist, not wanting to overstep, but unable to stand by while Bitty lets all of this out. They sit in silence and Bitty visibly gathers himself, finds a smile for Jack.

‘It’s not so bad,’ he croaks a laugh, despite the shimmer in his eyes that he wipes away determinedly, and Jack keeps his hand close, recognising sheer bravery when he sees it. ‘I think I’m actually having more fun with you than I would have done with him.’

Jack doesn’t quite know what to say to that – isn’t even sure he agrees – but in any case, after lunch Bitty, visibly cheered at the distraction, takes Jack down to a local bookstore so he can buy the first Harry Potter book – ‘Monsieur Zimmermann, I’m takin’ you to Hogwarts!’ he squeals, looking positively delighted at the prospect – and they talk a little about their lives, about the positives; Jack’s in Montreal and Providence, Bitty’s in Georgia and Massachusetts. Jack learns that Bitty is a keen ice-skater; much like Jack, he still does it on the side as a hobby when he can. Bitty also spends ages in the cooking section, joyfully losing it over the various recipe-books and Jack just grins to watch his enthusiasm as he thumbs through a rather interesting essay on Winston Churchill.

They leave the shop, Waterstones bags hanging from their hands, Bitty happily wondering how he’s going to get it all into his suitcase for the journey home and both enthusiastically discussing parallels between ice-skating and hockey. The strength of the ice under the blades of their feet, their early struggles to stand, the way their confidence grew like waves until they could make lines, is something they both have in common.

‘I’d love to watch you skate sometimes,’ Jack tells him; inexplicably, Bitty blushes, smiling down at the ground, and they walk back to the theatre arm-in-arm.

That night, Jack stays up to read the first chapter of _The Philosopher’s Stone_ and doesn’t stop reading until two in the morning. He texts Bitty his thoughts and gets variations of ‘Oh honey, just wait until you see what’s coming up,’ and ‘don’t worry, they cover that in the next book,’ and ‘I know, right?!’

 _You have a point about Snape,_ Jack texts and gets a series of clapping emojis. It makes him smile into the darkness.

The next day, following a good morning text and a question-mark, he and Bitty find a truly stupendous chocolate shop with a downstairs café in one of the lanes of Covent Garden and they spend a couple of hours eating cake and drinking tea, both trying to outdo each other with their poor attempts at British accents before Jack teaches Bitty some basic French phrases. Bitty does his best, but badly, laughing and flushing over his hot chocolate as Jack chirps him, unable to remember the last time he felt so light.

They go on the London Eye that afternoon and Jack stands side-by-side with Bitty at the glass, smiling at the camera, watching the younger boy’s eyes stare out at the city, completely enraptured as they rise high above London.

‘I’d love to skate with you,’ Bitty tells him out of nowhere, as if continuing a conversation and Jack glances at him. Bitty holds his gaze, cheeks pink.

‘Unless I’ve read this wrong and I’m makin’ a complete fool out of myself, in which case I’ll just be jumpin’ out this pod now and not botherin’ you again…’

His accent grows thicker through stress, Jack notes, fascinated, even as he strives to gently reassure him with nothing more than a slow, careful slip of his hand into Bitty’s, resting beside his own on the bar.

They kiss that evening beside the Thames – breathless and cold, red-cheeked and happy, Bitty clutching a rose, smiling against his mouth and Jack cupping his cheeks, his lips still carrying a trace of salt from the fish and chips they’d eaten for dinner. Around them, London twinkles, lit up in its rainbow colours and the rush of the river in the growing wind does nothing to quell the rush in Jack’s head, the simple and still-alive beat of his heart, as he sips from Bitty’s lips like the finest kind of wine, over and over again.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that WAS who you thought it was chasing Pushy Running Man at the start. All lovers need a hand. Or a shove.


End file.
